Chapter 8: Bide: Chapter 6

I wake up with a woman in my bed.

Blonde hair tickles my bare chest, the fresh-from-a-bottle, burns-your-nostrils peroxide kind. Like a mop splayed across my chest, roots tinged rusty.

Oddly, it reminds me of Lux and the time she tried to dye her hair in our bathroom with bleach from the dollar store. Suffice to say, the following day was spent soothing teenage tears and restoring her original dark shade.

I don’t remember her name. I only vaguely remember her face. But I definitely remember slamming shots like they were water and bringing home the first girl who showed interest in me. The friend of whoever Nick brought home, I think.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. A release. A distraction from who I wished I was bringing home. Now, though, as I carefully roll out of bed and creep out of the room, the regret hits me pretty hard, and I wonder just how shitty I’d feel if we’d done anything more than kiss and fondle each other before passing out.

Getting plastered and hooking up with randoms isn’t me. I don’t like it, it doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable and out of my depth, emotions I grew up drowning in and now actively avoid. Their occurrence is few and far between, catching me off guard at rare moments, and always, without fail, I wish I could take them back.

Last night especially.

I avoid my friends’ gazes as I shuffle into the kitchen. I make a beeline for the coffee pot and fill a mug to the brim, topping the dark liquid off with the hazelnut creamer our fridge has been stocked with since Ben moved in. Gracious man that he is, Nick allows me two whole sips before cooing in my ear, “Have fun last night?”

I hum a yes. Because I did, for a brief, odd moment.

It’s just not the moment I gather Nick is referring to.

Hands squeeze my shoulders, giving me a gentle shake. “That’s my boy.”

From the opposite end of the counter, Ben finishes dishing pancakes onto plates already laden with every breakfast food imaginable. After sliding two mine and Nick’s way—I dare not mention Nick’s sudden lack of roommate complaining—my younger friend props his elbows on the counter, chin in palm, brows wiggling. “You see Blondie was there?”

Nick’s loud groan cuts off my response. “Seriously? I swear to fucking God, I can’t get away from that girl.”

“No, my Blondie,” I correct him, just as quickly correcting myself. “The waitress, I mean.”

Alas, the damage is already done, Nick’s smirk promising trouble. “

Blondie, huh?”

“Shut up.” My knuckles connect with his shoulder. “Your waitress was there too.”

His smirks drops with his gaze, his breakfast suddenly more enticing than teasing me. “I know.”

“The redhead?” Bacon dangling from his fingertips, Cass slings an arm around Nick’s shoulders, shaking our friend teasingly. “You know her name yet?”

Curls fly as Nick shakes his head, irritation clear on his face. A hint of confusion, too. Like he’s not quite sure why. It’s a weird look on Nick, and God, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t kind of enjoying it.

Cass snorts. “That’s kind of pathetic, buddy. You’re turning into Jackson.”

“Hey?”

Cass waves off the middle finger I flip his way, ignoring me in favor of continuing his interrogation. “Just ask her out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Liar.”

Nick’s grip on his mug tightens, face scrunched in exasperation. “Would you drop it already?”

“Is the big bad Nicolas Silva ?”

“Would you shut the fuck up?”

If two years of friendship have taught me anything, it’s the skill of tolerating Cass and Nick’s bickering. Something Ben has yet to master; his gaze flits between the pair like he’s watching a tennis match. When he side-eyes me with a mixture of confusion and amusement, I already anticipate his question. “Are they always like this?”

I take a long, needed sip of sweet, nutty coffee. “Pretty much.”

Sometimes, my hands do this thing.

They kind of disconnect from the part of my brain that controls them and imprint my random stream of consciousness onto paper. Draw whatever they want without me realizing. Usually, it’s harmless. Usually, it’s whatever random shit is on my mind; my sisters or the ranch or, occasionally, the face of a woman, an older version of Lux, who really doesn’t deserve to be immortalized in print.

This time, though, the sketch staring up at me, a heart-shaped face framed by wisps of wavy hair, does not feel harmless.

Releasing a frustrated puff of air, I shove my sketchbook away.

The art store I work at is supposed to be my slice of peace. It’s rarely busy, which means I spend most shifts with only my thoughts as company, quietly and sporadically interrupted by the scratching of charcoal against paper. My time here isn’t usually invaded by thoughts of a pretty girl and what her exact eye shape is or how I’m failing to truly execute the impatient arch of her brows.

I swear, I’m not usually this pathetic.

Elbows hitting the counter, I drag my hands through my hair, head dropping in unison with my eyelids as I will myself to think of something, anything, else. But as the seconds pass, it feels more and more like an impossible task.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not like this, I don’t get hooked like this. Not in the way that Cass and Nick don’t, where commitment is the issue. It’s the opposite, really. Like I said before, casual isn’t really my thing, and college breeds casual. It’s more like I’ve never been interested. Not enough, anyway. Never had my eye caught.

Not like this.

It’s fucking torment.

My head lifts reluctantly as the bell above the front door chimes, duty calling. But my customer-service-friendly smile dissipates just as quickly as it slips into place when I get an eyeful of who strides through the door and suddenly, I’m hit with the urge to drop to the floor and hide.

Impossibly tight denim shorts.

I’m ashamed to admit that’s what I notice first.

Hard not to when they’re clinging so tightly to such tanned, toned legs. A flash of something sparkly draws my gaze upward, and a groan builds and dies in my throat at the sight of a diamond bellybutton piercing glinting in the light, showcased by the cropped cut of the flouncy, floral v-neck top knotted a few inches above it. I skip quickly over the expanse of freckled chest revealed, landing on a face I suddenly feel embarrassed for having tried to replicate.

I could have all the talent in the world and I’m positive I couldn’t do justice to the original.

She’s too vivid. Painfully so. Like a beautifully unnerving spot of color in a consistently monotone life. God knows I’d never capture that, and something in me doesn’t want to. It doesn’t seem right to trap all that within the confines of my sketchbook yet here I am, doing it anyway.

I straighten as she approaches, knuckles white with how tightly I grip the counter, a lump the size of Texas clogging my throat.

On the contrary, Luna is the epitome of relaxed. She breezes over, propping her palms on the counter, arms spread wide, one set of perfectly manicured pink fingernails tapping an offbeat rhythm. A hip cocks in unison with her head.

Not a hint of recognition in baby blue eyes.

She doesn’t remember. Of course, she doesn’t. Why would she? It’s naive to think a ten minute drunken interaction with some random guy would be enough to leave a mark.

“Hi,” Luna greets, and I resist the urge to close my eyes and bask in the smooth quality of that single word. “Can you help me?”

My nod is as stiff as my smile. “Sure.”

Some of the tension holding me taut melts when she graces me with a beam. I’m so entranced by it, it takes me a full ten seconds to register the Post-It extended my way. Snatching it with a cough, I scan the scribbled list.

Pencils, sketchbooks, a couple of different kinds of paint and brushes. Standard beginner art supplies kit.

Because I need another reason to like this girl.

“This won’t take long.” With another sorry excuse for a smile, I duck beneath the counter and head for the stocked shelves lining the store walls, expecting my first customer of the day to wait by the register. I’m surprised when, instead, she follows me. Provides me with an endless stream of chatter.

God, did I really ever enjoy the quiet?

“I’m not really much of an artist,” Luna muses without prompting, absently brushing her fingertips over a set of fan brushes. “I just had an elective to fill and my mom says it runs in my blood. She’s an artist.”

I hum quietly, watching her out of my peripheral as she babbles with seemingly no expectations for a response. It’s so creepy, I know it is, but she’s kind of fascinating to watch. She’s got this thing I always notice but can never put a name to.

doesn’t cover it. It’s like she can’t stay still. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, touching everything we pass, spinning a ring around her finger, all of it absentminded, like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

Only when I hand her something does she briefly settle, pausing to thoroughly study it. Fishes a pen out of her bag and leans around me to tick it off the list quickly becoming more and more crumpled between my fingers. Breath tickling my skin and her hand brushing mine, I’m reminded of the last time we were in such close proximity, and I wonder if she’d be this close, this oddly comfortable, if she remembered too.

When the scent of vanilla starts clouding my judgment and convincing me that burying my face in her hair and sniffing wouldn’t be that weird, I force myself to step away. I practically sprint to the other end of the aisle, only awarded a few seconds of reprieve because she’s hot on my tail.

Whether she blocks my path intentionally or not, I don’t know, but she props herself directly in front of the exact pencils I’m looking for, back to the shelf with her hands tucked casually in her back pockets. “You like art?”

I know damn well we’re the only people here yet still, I’m tempted to glance over my shoulder to check she’s talking to me. Miraculously, I cough out a simple, coherent response. “I do.”

Her laugh is soft, quiet, such a juxtaposition to…

. “Silly question, right? Since you work here?”

A quirked lip and a shake of my head is all I manage.

“Can you draw?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let me guess,” undeterred by my horrific conversational skills, Luna’s lazy smile remains intact, eyes narrowed in sparkling scrutiny, “art student?”

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, my grandparents’ laughter echoes. As if they would’ve ever let that happen. “Architecture.”

“So you build houses?”

If a smile is what Luna was aiming for, she succeeds. “Something like that.”

Her hum is interested, curious, and I find myself standing a little straighter, especially when she squints at me with a half-smile. “I know you from somewhere.”

Stomach in my goddamn throat, I wait.

“The diner, right?” she proclaims eventually, fingers snapping like she’s solved a puzzle. “You and your friends come in a lot.”

I’m an odd mixture of disappointed that she still doesn’t remember a conversation that’s been playing on my mind non-stop and pleased because hey, at least I’m not completely forgettable. “Yeah, we do.”

“You guys are on the baseball team,” she continues slowly, as if she’s piecing something together. When I hum confirmation, a lovely, dangerous smirk forms. “Your friend stares at my friend a lot. The pretty one with the horny eyes.”

I swallow a snort. Yeah, Nick would love that description.

In a different universe, maybe I’d have the nerve to offer more than a nod. To ask her to elaborate when she murmurs beneath her breath. To continue the conversation, keep her here a little longer.

In reality, I hurry back to the cash register, ringing her up and sliding the paper bag full of new supplies toward her. “You need anything else?”

Shaking her head, she props the bag in the crook of her arm, hitting me with a smile nothing short of breathtaking. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Luna robs me of those upturned lips when she turns her back and heads for the door, yet another interaction coming to an end too soon for my liking.

But with one hand wrapped around the door handle, she pauses. Indulges me a little more by half-turning. Sighing, big and dramatic, in a way that matches her big, dramatic expression of false exasperation. “You’re really gonna make me ask for your name, huh?”

My face fucking hurts with the magnitude of the smile that erupts. “It’s Jackson.”

“Jackson,” she repeats, rolling the word around on her tongue, and shit if my name isn’t suddenly the best sound in the world. “It’s nice to properly meet you, Jackson. I’m Luna.”

“Luna,” I repeat the same way she did, reveling in her pleased hum. “It’s nice to meet you, Luna.”